


Night Jasmine

by Violetwylde



Series: Ficlet Collection [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Light Bondage, M/M, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 06:02:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17115794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violetwylde/pseuds/Violetwylde
Summary: Based on the anonymous prompt: “My partner bent me over the handle of our bedrooms balcony last night and I had to keep quiet while he fucked me hard. It was dark but if my neighbour would have looked properly he might have seen me with the red leather hand cuffs my partner cuffed me to the handle. Would make a good fic prompt I think. Just imagine John bending over Sherlock, cuffing him up for everyone to see if they took a proper look...”I took a few liberties, but credit for my inspiration belongs to this fine individual.





	Night Jasmine

Sherlock rests his forearms on the stone banister. A warm breeze, velvet soft, carries the scent of night blooming jasmine, and below him the quiet plaza is glowing gold with candles and lanterns. In the distance, he can hear the crash of waves on Moroccan sand.

John comes up from behind him, bare feet a quiet slap against the marble floor. He doesn’t say a word, just runs his hands down Sherlock’s back, over his silk dressing gown—new from the market this afternoon, royal blue and so fine it whispers against his skin. John’s hands reach his waist, the loose cinch of his belt, and circle around to the front. He pulls the knot free and tugs, slipping the belt out of it’s loops. 

The gown opens, silently unfurling to expose Sherlock to the night air. His breathing quickens, but he doesn’t object, doesn’t move. John calls him love, tells him he’s so beautiful in the moonlight, asks if it would be okay to tie him to the banister and fuck him under the stars. 

Sherlock looks down to the sleepy courtyard below. The evening crowd has mostly disappeared, but a few people remain, smoking and enjoying a midnight coffee. 

He says yes. 

The silk belt slithers around his wrists before tightening, holding him captive—a slave to John’s whims. The gown slips off his shoulders, down half of his back, and John leans in to kiss the moon-touched skin. He didn’t shave this morning, or yesterday, and the prickle makes Sherlock shiver, makes heat bloom in his cheeks. Makes his cock twitch. 

John pushes up the bottom hem, revealing long thighs and the plush curve of his arse. He bunches the fabric at the small of Sherlock’s back and holds it there with one hand. The other is running over his arse, slipping toward the cleft. He slides a dry thumb between Sherlock’s cheeks, presses lightly against his hole. It’s only a suggestion. A promise. 

Sherlock moans all the same and John chuckles—that dangerous, dark rumble he has when he’s well and truly in control—and calls him a needy tart. He reaches between Sherlock’s legs, brushing along his taint and cupping his heavy bollocks. He squeezes, tugs. And Sherlock whines, bends his knees and tilts his hips and let’s his head hang loose. 

John tells him to be patient, to be good, to wait just minute. His warmth slips away from Sherlock’s back, leaving him bent over the banister—rock hard and mostly naked. It feels like more than a minute as he stands there, exposed to the world. 

When John finally returns, he brings with him the sweet scent of almond oil. His hands are slick as they grab at Sherlock’s arse cheeks and tug them apart. A finger slips easily into him. Then another. They slide in and out, brushing over his prostate with tantalizing lightness. They tug at his rim and Sherlock feels the wash of warm breath a second before a mouth and tongue join. 

His body is alight with the sensation of smooth fingers and soft lips and rough stubble. He bites back a cry, moans for John to take him, please, fuck him. 

There’s a graveled yeah whispered against his arsehole, then John pulls back, grabs Sherlock’s hips and lowers and tilts his until the angle is just right. He already slicked up when he pushes his fat cock in—one smooth thrust that buries him to the hilt. He rocks his hips, stirs his cock deep, and slowly pulls out. He growls, tells Sherlock he’s quite a sight stretched around him. Then presses in again. 

He starts slow, carving into Sherlock’s body with careful consideration. But that pace simply cannot be maintained. His thrusts grow faster, stronger—until they’re frenzied, grunting things. 

He fucks Sherlock like he’s making a demonstration to the moon and stars. He fucks Sherlock like the entire plaza is watching. 

He fucks Sherlock like he’s cutting out his own heart and offering it to Sherlock’s pleasure. 

He’s moaning out for Sherlock—that he’s beautiful and perfect and so fucking tight. Grunting out yeah, yeah and it sounds utterly blasphemous. And he’s hitting Sherlock just right. The sweet stretch of his rim and the press of John’s thick cock head against his prostate over and over and over again. Sherlock wails, high and constricted in his throat, as pleasure spirals deep. An exquisite ache wraps around his balls, radiates out, throbs in his prick. And John knows, must be able to feel the clench of ecstasy, because he’s chanting for Sherlock to come, come for him, do it do it, yeah. 

Release is like coming up for air after sinking into a churning ocean. It’s gloriously violent. He spurts out thick ribbons that splatter in streaks along the marble between his feet. And it doesn’t ever seem to end. 

John is fucking him and fucking him and he could swear he’s still coming long after the last pulse stops. His whole body is surging with bliss as John thrusts again and again, rough voice telling him he’s gonna come, gonna come, gonna— 

Then John is balls beep and throbbing. His fingers are digging into the flesh just above the crests of Sherlock’s hips and he bends forward to rest his forehead on Sherlock’s back. He’s panting hot along his skin and Sherlock shivers with the last sparks of orgasm. 

John doesn’t untie him until after he’s buried his face between Sherlock’s cheeks and licked his own spunk clean from Sherlock’s dribbling hole. 

They leave the balcony door open when they finally go to bed—letting the moonlight and jasmine and soft crash of waves join them.


End file.
